Silver lining

I'm writing this though a haze of exhaustion, brought on by a combination of lack of sleep, lack of nourishing food, extended periods throughout the day during which my brain was seriously deprived of oxygen, and listenting to the profoundly unjustified whines of a troupe of actors. After my first ever race in a single I have to tell you...

No, i'm not going to let you off that easily. I'm going to walk you through those 1000m stroke by fucking stroke. And it will take you longer to read this than it took me to reach the finish.

So there I was, nervous, nauseaus, waiting for my call (a very unpromising beginning, both for a race and a tale). My start was at 8:15, so I launched at 7:45, which seemed reasonable. (What the fuck do I know? My kingdom for a shortass with a napolean complex to tell me what to do and when!) When I arrived at the start, there were no officials and no boats. And I don't just mean competitors. The moored boats from which the starters were supposed to hold our sterns weren't even in place yet. I took advantage of the opportunity to paddle the course through and practice some starts.

Although I'm a big believer in the psychological advantage of an early lead, I decided to chuck my earlier strategy of "fly off the start with both barrels and take an early lead so you can see everyone behind you and therefore avoid crashing into them" in favor of "have a nice, controlled, clean start and build up speed slowly, otherwise you'll crab and flip and that will suck like a Clinton-era intern."

I was in the first heat of the day. My competitors were pleasant, and we didn't quibble over inches at the start line, because the course began right after a sharp bend in the river, which put the current almost perpendicular to our path, thereby making it impossible to line up perfectly. Come to half slide, blades squared, locked, and burried. Checked and double checked. Look straight ahead, chin up damnit don't slouch. A grey-haired woman with a Gilligan hat said "attention... go." We went. No fanfare or exclamation point or anything.

I started smoothly, keeping my course and gradually working my way up to full slide. After 10 strokes I looked around and was down, but not by much. At the 250 I took a bad stroke. I'm not sure what happened. First I think I washed out with my portside oar, then I caught a crab. I suddenly found myself pointing 60 degress away from my target bouy and not moving. "That's it," I thought. "I'm sunk. I'll never recover from this. Paddle home."

"NO!" screamed the rest of my brain. "Paddle? The FUCK you'll paddle. It ain't over 'til it's over. Correct your point and GO GO GO GO GO GO!!!!! See that dock? On that dock, right now, are standing the ghosts of everyone who has ever been proud of you, who has ever stood by you, expressed confidence in your potential, or cheered you from the side. It's Tom and Claus and Eva and Lizzy and Jamie and Steggars and Macadie. Honk on it! Honk on it for Tom! Honk on it RIGHT NOW! Justify their pride. Make them proud again! Make yourself proud! HONK ON IT!!!" After beating the defeatest portion of my brain into submission, I did. Honk on it, that is.

At the 500 I was completely outside the course. I can't steer for shit when I'm gunning for home, and I wasn't even bothering to look where I was going. I was going, and that's all that mattered. After 600 I dared to look behind me. By god if I wasn't closing the gap. Only a lenght of open water, the same distance I was down when I crabbed. I had recovered my earlier standing. "My god," thought I. "I just might pull this out yet." I forced myself to accept the rowers' paradox: the harder you try, the slower you go. If you get frantic, if you panic and work yourself into a frenzy, you'll wear yourself out by wasting energy, and you'll slow down because you're putting your energy into the wrong places. If you want to go faster, you must relax. I calmed down. I had been smacking about like a duck on acid, but I took a deep breath, I lengthened my stroke, I cleaned up my finishes, I sat way back on it like pumping a swing. A little higher each time, a little faster. Pump the swing, feel the drive, quick fingers, a little faster. 100 meters to go. I made contact. No longer open water, I had her stern (and I was finally back on the course. sort of.) I brought my rating up again. Up 2. Drive, drive. Up 2. I looked over. Only a cavas and I'll row right through her... Drive...

BWAAP!

BWAAP!

The horn at the finish. I didn't have enough time. A few more meters. I just needed a few more meters and I'd've had her. As it is, I only lost by 1 second. Not too shabby, considering she's been sculling for 3 years and I've been for 3 weeks. It's obvious my top speed significantly outpaced her top speed. After the line she leaned over and puked. She must've been working fucking hard to hold me off, and she barely succeeded. I don't quibble the silver medal, though. I may be faster, but I took a bad stroke and she didn't and she got there first, fair and square. And by the way, there was another heat in our division. I didn't just take second in my heat, I had the second fastest time overall. 1 lousy second. And third place was 8 seconds behind me, so I can live with it. As I say, not too shabby for the first time flying solo.

It would have been nice to have more than just the shades of coaches past peering over my shoulder, but the course doesn't lend itself well to spectators (being entirely surrounded by trees), and all my family were busy. Still, I missed having fans. I thought back to some of my better regatts from my Manchester days, and remembered that at BUSA they played "We are the Champions" during every medal ceremony. I regretted not having my Queen album in the car. After my stint as a finish line volunteer (I got to wave the red flag for an hour) I collected my medal from the tent amidst a total lack of pagentry and walked to my car. It took about 2 minutes to gain the highway, where the radio signal comes in clear. I turned on the stereo.

"I've paid my dues, time after time; I've done my sentence, but committed no crime; And I've made mistakes, but I've paid my dues; I've had my share of sand kicked in my face, But I'VE COME THROUGH.

AND WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS, MY FRIEND!"
At this point I turned the voume way the fuck up and sang my lungs out, flying down a sunny highway on a hazy summer day, smelling the sunblock on my skin, periodically hefting the silver medal around my neck, and generally feeling like I am the most butt-kicking badass bitch the sport has ever known. Zero to silver in just over 3 weeks, and only 2 hours coaching in that time. And this was an open category. These were not novices. I was the only novice, and I damn near won, even after crabbing. The next time you see a medal around my neck, I'll be holding a bunch of roses and standing on a podium, and there will be a very large torch behind me. You think I'm joking? I'm going all out, and anyone who thinks I don't have what it takes can fuck off. This race was a metaphor for the rest of my life. It was just the start, and it was smooth, strong, and I'm taking an early lead. You can wait for me at the finish line.